You don't have to punch life in the face. Just walk beside it & keep it from kicking you in the butt.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Aftermath

This post is an entry in The Great Experiment. If you're so inclined, please visit The Girl Who to place your vote by leaving a comment there. You can vote til Saturday and you may vote ONCE per computer. Thanks!

After nineteen months of refusing to give up and walk away, he had done it for me. I had held on by the tips of my fingertips for so long... my immediate reaction was relief.

And then anger.

P, because she is a good friend, immediately took over. She took me to her apartment, dressed me up in a boob shirt, and took me to Aspen to shake my booty. We were hanging out with a bunch of guys from the golf club where we worked, and they, being caddies, were flush with the cash heaped upon them by rich golfers. We drank, we danced...

And then there was the desperation.

What was I doing? I don't know how to do this! I snuck away to find a quiet corner to call my husband. He, of course, was at her house. But he wasn't sure he had done the right thing. He wanted to come home.

"Come get me," I said. "We'll talk about it."

But no. He was mad at me for being out (and not sitting at home, crying and waiting, I suppose). And something in that attitude finally (FINALLY!) flipped a switch in my brain. And I realized... that I most certainly DO know how to do this.

And I did. I knew how to dance, and flirt, and accept drinks from cute guys. I also apparently remembered how to make out in a back seat. And the front seat. Of my husband's truck (note to ex-husband if he's reading: I actually had sex in your truck four times before I gave it back to you. You're welcome for that piece of information).

A week later, he came to the house that had been ours to help me complete my move out. He had on his sad face. He boxed and cleaned and looked at me with hangdog eyes. He begged. He said he was wrong. He wanted me back. There was nothing he wouldn't do to get me back. I should give him another chance. I started to feel bad. I wasn't giving in, but I did feel sorry for him.

And then, while taking a load to the car, I saw her. Sitting in the truck. Waiting for him. He had brought her along, and she was outside waiting for him while he groveled for forgiveness.

I laughed. Out loud. He was unbelievable.

But there were more conversations. He continued asking for more chances. He left presents, one a week, on my doorstep (which creeped out my roommate to no end). He called. We met for lunch and he cried. He made promises. And when I told him I'd consider it if he'd 1) move out of her house (hello!) and 2) get counseling, I knew that neither would happen.